Dimmock Has Guts and An Easter Bunny Costume
by ITell
Summary: Sequel to It's Not That John Hates The Easter Bunny, It's Just . . . May be difficult to understand without reading that first. Detective Inspector Dimmock was not having a good night. He should have known something was suspect when Sherlock Holmes called up, asking for a favour. Rated T merely due to paranoia.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. That honour goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss. I can dream though!**

* * *

Detective Inspector Dimmock was not having a good night. He should have known something was suspect when Sherlock Bloody Holmes called up, asking for a favour.

In truth, he should have known something was up when Sherlock Holmes called him at all; but he made his way over to Baker Street anyway.

Upon entering he saw Sherlock Holmes wearing a badly-designed wolf costume. "Ah, Dimmock. Nice of you to join me." The wolf didn't even look up from his phone.

Dimmock had heard crazy things recently at the Yard. It was said that Sherlock and Dr. Watson were in a 'relationship'. He stood in the doorway, unsure. He silently prayed that he hadn't walked into some sort of sex play between the two men. Who knew, with Sherlock Holmes; and the man crazy enough to date him.

"Where is Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock took the mask off scowling at his phone screen. "Out." Said Sherlock curtly. "We've got to hurry. Put this on - I'll explain on the way." He handed Dimmock a fluffy white bunny costume and made his way to the kitchen.

"Excuse me?" Dimmock looked wide-eyed at Sherlock, who didn't answer, peering over a microscope.

Dimmock ran through a small list, in his head, of psychiatric hospitals in the London area, that he knew had beds available.

"I'm on a case Dimmock, I am not going to sexually assault you. As I said, I'll explain on the way. We're going to be late." Sherlock motioned towards the bunny in Dimmock's hands.

"And this?" Dimmock held up the costume.

"Disguise. Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes, over the microscope.

Dimmock eyed the mask speculatively. He noted with a grimace that it depicted a female rabbit, with thick, long eyelashes and a deep blush. "I don't know . . . and why would I do this anyway?"

Sherlock glared at Dimmock. "Because there are innocent people being drugged and stripped of their costume! Isn't it an officer's duty to protect people!" Sherlock said emotionally, putting his head in the crook of his elbow.

"Are you mocking me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes," said Sherlock in his usual apathetic tone, straightening up, "John still doubts my sense of humour. Get changed." Sherlock pointed at the costume again.

"Are people really being drugged?" Asked Dimmock derisively.

"Yes. At a society party. There is no _reliable_ evidence of it happening though, so the police aren't looking into it." He gave Dimmock a dirty look.

"Why am I doing this?" Asked Dimmock. He had better things to be doing on a Friday night than . . . _this._ (Whatever this was.)

"I trust you remember my assistance in the Christopher Fallon murder?"

"Assistance? You stole my I.D. and traumatised the victim's wife!"

"Yes, but I solved the case! Besides," Sherlock sniffed, "I doubt your reputation would survive the shame of New Scotland Yard's finest knowing I stole your I.D."

Dimmock spluttered, dumbfounded for a moment. "Am I being blackmailed by a psychopath?" He eventually managed.

"Oh lord, you're nearly as bad as Anderson." Sherlock murmured. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath!"

"You're insane!"

"I'm a genius, thus you cannot win this arguement!" Sherlock smacked his palm onto the table. "Get into the bunny, we're going to be late!"

Dimmock took five even breaths considering his options. They filtered down to two unspeakable choices.

He could walk out right now . . . and be the fool, amongst his colleagues, that got pickpocketed by Sherlock Holmes.

Or he could put on the costume and follow Sherlock Holmes god knows where.

He sighed, loosening his tie. At least the bunny had a mask.

In the end, he didn't look that bad.

Dimmock and Sherlock looked up as footfalls thundered up the stairs. Dimmock considered hiding - what if it was Lestrade?

Dr. John Watson entered the room carrying a bag of milk. He paused at the sight of Dimmock wearing the fluffy white bunny costume; the corners of John's mouth started twitching and his cheeks went red.

At least John had enough respect for Dimmock to take his giggles to the kitchen.

"Come on then _Detective Inspector_." Said Sherlock sardonically, putting his coat on over his wolf costume.

Dimmock sighed, resigned. He grabbed his own jacket and shuffled off after Sherlock. "Evening Dr. Watson."

An unintelligable mumble from inside the kitchen replied. Dimmock looked through the kitchen door on passing and saw John leaning over the sink, hands gripping the edge. Giggles still managing to pass his lips.

Dimmock suppressed another sigh.

Outside Sherlock was trying to flag down a cab; but everytime, the driver took one look at Sherlock - wearing a giant wolf costume and a Belstaff coat - and sped up, turning the nearest corner.

Dimmock couldn't say he blamed them.

It was a half hour before Dimmock got fed up enough to run out into the street and actually force a cab to stop.

He held up his I.D. "Police emergency." He said as he entered the cab.

Dimmock looked back and saw Sherlock standing there, looking almost dumbstruck. "Getting in, Mr. Holmes? You were the one in such a hurry."

Sherlock shook himself and got in the cab, rattling off a Soho address and placing his mask on his lap. He looked at Dimmock with a new appreciation.

Dimmock ran through the list of Psychiatric hospitals in his head again, and wondered which one _he_ would prefer.

"Okay. So . . . what are we doing, Mr. Holmes?" Dimmock tried to ignore the bewildered glances of the cabbie through the rearview mirror.

"We are attending a party for the Furry and Proud Society - "

"The what?" Dimmock asked.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He hated being interrupted. "The Furry and Proud Society. A group who hold meetings about fur fetish - "

"_What?_" Dimmock interrupted again.

"Fur fetish. Eroticism involving the role-play of animals." Sherlock scowled at Dimmock, the new-found appreciation of the Inspector quickly depleting. "The party attendants are anonymous - masks and a partner are required for entry. But, according to my client Mr. Schofield, at the last four parties a guest has ended up drugged and had their costume stolen. No marks on the victim, no memory of the attack - no clues to work with. Yet."

Sherlock continued before Dimmock could interrupt again. "I am going to figure out who is the assailant. Nice little challenge considering everybody is disguised and masked - I doubt it should take more than an hour to solve it. You are coming with me simply because I will be refused entry without a partner. After I'm in you can do what you want." Sherlock glanced at Dimmock. "Why is your face so red?"

"We are going to a sex party!" Thundered Dimmock, his earlier thoughts suddenly not so far off the mark. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier! At your flat!"

"If I told you at the flat, before you got into your costume, you wouldn't have come. I made that mistake with John, hence why you are here."

"Ah, we have arrived." Sherlock said as the cab turned into a street filled with decrepit brick buildings. He left the cab with a purpose, leaving Dimmock to pay the driver.

"How much sir?"

"Free of charge officer, I think I got my tax pound's worth tonight!"

Dimmock sighed, leaving the cab to find Sherlock stalking up and down the path, inspecting the ground.

Dimmock carefully trawled up the gravel - it was difficult to see anything at all in this mask and stopped infront of the consulting detective, who was picking up and tossing random pieces of gravel from the path.

The Bouncer - a burly man in a black suit and heavily shaded sunglasses - eyed them speculatively.

Sherlock abruptly stood up, shoved his mask over his face, and started stalking towards the doorway. The Bouncer edged to the left, blocking their entry into the little used theatre building.

"Have you been invited? Or are you gate-crashing?" Asked the Bouncer in a hoarse voice.

"We have been asked to attend by the chairman." Replied Sherlock.

"I don't think you two look like the type to attend _these _sorts of parties."

Dimmock cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at his own costume and at Sherlock, who had his hands on his hips, trying to glare at the Bouncer - and looking surprisingly unimpressive, wearing the frankenstein-like wolf mask.

The Bouncer finally seemed to take in the costumes. He shook his head in an amused fashion and stepped aside, allowing them both to pass.

They followed the corridor into a huge hall, filled with a large variety of human shaped animals, chatting amongst themselves in a civilised manner and drinking cocktails.

Dimmock heard jazz music playing in the background.

Words could not describe the bewilderment he felt in that moment.

"Well Mr. Holmes, now what?" Dimmock asked, turning towards his mentally disturbed blackmailer. Sherlock wasn't there.

Dimmock whirled around, looking for the giant wolf.

Vanished without a trace. Great.

He waited for ten minutes, wondering if Sherlock was going to return, or if he was free to leave - and trying to ignore the drunk rooster chatting him up - when he heard it. The scream.

Not a 'holy mother, I'm being murdered!' type of scream.

It was more a 'my word, what is this crazy maniac doing?' type of scream; and it was too much of a coincidence that Sherlock Holmes was in the same building.

He ran towards the cry, elbowing various zoo animals out of the way, apologizing when he knocked an elephant on it's arse.

The scream had turned to shouting now. Familiar shouting.

Dimmock reached the epicentre of the aural assault and came face to face with Detective Seargent Donovan, wearing a shapely zebra costume - the mask of which was in the punch bowl; and a very angry Anderson, his mask on the ground, having been stomped on beyond recognition. The rest of him was adorned in black fur. He was shouting an imaginative range of swear words to a very unimpressed wolf.

Donovan looked mortified, Dimmock was sure his face mirrored the same expression, until he realised that she couldn't see it.

Sherlock glared, cutting in when Anderson paused for breath. "Are you two telling me that you attend these events on a regular basis _for fun, _ but haven't realised that a very serious crime has been commited at the last four?"

Donovan was edging towards the crowd of animals that had gathered around them, trying to make a quiet escape.

"Well, my word, Anderson. You have officially made the country's collective I.Q. that much smaller due to your idiocy. Not that I'm surprised." Sherlock sniffed.

"How dare you accuse me of being stupid!" Exploded Anderson, drawing himself up to full height. "I am a SENIOR pathologist for New Scotland Yard! I went to university for ten years! I speak fluent german! I can - "

"Yes, but apparently none of that has a bearing on your understanding of the food chain! It would seem you're getting it wrong even in bed!" (Not that Sherlock ever wanted to think about Anderson in the bedroom. Shudder.)

"What do you mean!" Sneered Anderson.

Sherlock pointed at Donovan, near the door, making her getaway.

"A zebra is not a panther's natural prey, you imbecile."

Dimmock shook his head and manouvered his way out of the crowd. The panther and wolf were still going at it as he escaped out the back entrance.

Suddenly it didn't matter if the Yard knew about him being pick pocketed by a madman. After tonight, he would hardly be at the top of the Yard's gossip wheel.

* * *

**A/N: **Many thanks to **johnsarmylady ** for inspiring the idea for this sequel.

I apologise for any OOC-ness.

Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.


End file.
